The Girl in Green

by Derek B. Miller

  ‘We’re going. So if we can get on with this—’ Arwood says.

  Farrah smiles again. It is then Benton realises that her grace is not a form of polished diplomacy, but a highly refined survival skill.

  Märta raps gently on Louise’s door and swings it open enough so that they make eye contact. Benton can see them both from his angle. Louise ushers them in. She’s on a call, and the speakerphone is on. She’s taking notes on a legal pad with her free hands. ‘I’m on with AirOps,’ she whispers. ‘Give me second.’

  A dry, humourless, and distinctly Russian voice that channels the collective charm of the former Politburo comes through old speakers on the phone. Disembodied, it says, ‘We had three stretcher cases yesterday without stretchers. This created problem for loading and off-loading of wounded and other messy people. Technically this isn’t our concern, but the Iraqi Red Crescent — which is not always the most cooperative national society, not that this is news — is using ambulances for collecting patients, and they don’t have stretchers for stretcher cases. They only have the one used in the ambulance. This results in blood leaking onto the floor of my aircraft, which is bad for the aircraft. It also smells very bad and irritates me, and makes everything tacky, including my instruments, and I don’t like it. I now think if we are carrying bleeding wounded we need a new solution for protecting against blood spillage into, and from, the aircraft. So I’m telling you — my boss.’

  ‘Thanks, Spaz. I’ll tell the head of mission, and I’ll see what we can do about the sheeting. You’re helping save lives, Spaz. We’re all grateful.’

  ‘Yeah … OK,’ he says, and unceremoniously hangs up.

  Louise hangs up by pushing an orange button. She opens her palms. ‘Busy morning. You know how it is.’

  ‘His name is Spaz?’ Arwood asks.

  ‘We don’t know his real name.’

  ‘Is that good?’

  ‘It’s working so far, which is pretty much the definition of success around here.’

  ‘Louise Ballan,’ Märta interjects, ‘this is Thomas Benton from the Times, and Arwood Hobbes, who is temporarily with me. They’re headed up north for the day. I wanted you to all meet and see if there’s anything that wasn’t in the UN sitrep this morning.’ Turning to the men, she says, ‘After I left the UNHCR in 1995, I was with the ICRC myself. They have a network of their own, and they don’t share information. So this conversation is not to be repeated.’

  Louise is in her early forties. She is slender and big-chested, wears heavy and dated glasses, and her hair is the greatest mass of black, tangled curls Benton has ever seen. She sees him looking at it and smiles.

  ‘Hypnotic, isn’t it?’

  ‘I didn’t mean to stare.’

  ‘Everyone stares. It’s hypnotic.’

  Benton smiles, and reaches out his hand to shake hers.

  Arwood does the same, and says nothing.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Louise asks, sitting down again and ignoring Arwood.

  Märta is about to speak, but it’s Arwood who answers. ‘A few kilometres south-east of the Yaaroubiyeh border crossing in al-Qanat. There was an attack three days ago,’ he says. ‘We’re going to the spot — as soon as we’re done here. We’re going to find the girl. You know the one.’ He checks his watch.

  ‘I would recommend against it,’ Louise says, starting to shuffle some papers around on her desk. ‘There’s word that ISIL is targetting Iraqi police and security forces, not only to weaken them but to scare people off from joining them. That area is overlapped by half a dozen unfriendly power players, including the Kurds, Jabhat al-Nusra, and ISIL, at the very least. We have refugees passing through, but we’re trying to divert them to better routes or else send them south into Jordan instead, though conditions there are getting very bad. And the Kurds are … unpredictable at this point.’

  ‘Thanks. We’re going anyway,’ Arwood says, and then, to Benton’s embarrassment, makes for the door.

  Louise and her hair nod. ‘Hobbes, huh?’

  Arwood stops. ‘That’s my name.’

  ‘Any relation?’

  ‘What difference would it make?’

  ‘OK.’ Then she looks at Benton. ‘You do know, I assume, that dozens of journalists have been kidnapped by the Syrian government and the Islamist insurgents alike, right? That no one is talking about it on the theory that not publicising it will undercut the motive to do it? Also, the attack you’re talking about, the mortar attack — the claim of responsibility by that Kurdish group is unconfirmed. Most people don’t think it was the Kurds. I don’t think it was. I wouldn’t go near the Syrian border now if I were an English journalist travelling with an American.’

  ‘We heard,’ says Benton. ‘And, perhaps unfortunately, many European governments are regularly paying ransoms to get their journalists back, which means a market has already been created and prices set. In any event, we won’t be there long. In and out over the next few hours is the idea. We’re going to check the site, take some pictures, and come right back.’

  ‘We’ve got to get on the road,’ Arwood says, clearly growing impatient. ‘Thanks for the information.’ Arwood, this time, walks out.

  ‘Can I ask you a question?’ Louise asks, looking at Benton.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘This was one attack in a thousand. Over eight thousand Iraqis have been killed this year. It’s a blip on the radar. Why is the Times covering it?’

  ‘Because it was on global TV and you remember it,’ he says. ‘It’s not a good reason for something to be a story, but it is a common one.’

  ‘I was told through the grapevine that the Times is trying to turn a profit for the first time in two hundred years. This doesn’t seem like the way to do it.’

  ‘It’s a big old goofy world,’ Benton says.

  ‘It sure is,’ Louise says.

  Märta lingers when Benton has gone.

  Louise is not smiling.

  ‘None of that sounds right, Märta.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘The American. Is he CIA?’

  ‘CIA?’ she says, sitting down. ‘No. No way. He doesn’t fit the profile.’

  ‘He’s smarter than he looks. He seems very at ease in a conflict zone. He’s in shape. He’s focussed. He’s punctual. He could be Directorate of Operations or a contractor. There’s a whole universe I don’t even understand.’

  ‘No,’ says Märta. ‘People from the Directorate of Operations, despite thinking they’re all mysterious, are actually pretty easy to spot. They’re political moderates, college-educated, have weak religious affiliations, are patriotic but not zealous, are able to work in formal administrative systems and follow instructions, and are not especially materialistic — though boys will be boys, with their cars and TVs. They’re all square pegs in square holes, and they love their jobs and hate their bosses. Arwood doesn’t fit. He has a bad discharge from the army, and the CIA has grown very competitive and selective since September 11. I don’t see him being able to have a boss or a job. Also, my experience is that the CIA, despite crossing almost every conceivable moral line, still respects the boundaries with humanitarian organisations and journalists.’

  ‘We don’t know that,’ Louise says. ‘Maybe they just haven’t been caught yet.’

  ‘I don’t think,’ Märta says, ‘that Arwood is working his way up a bureaucratic organisation.’

  ‘They hire assassins, too. And he sort of does fit that profile. Your reputation would go to hell if he’s any way connected to that world, and the International Refugee Support Group would lose access to thousands of non-combatants who rely on you. And since we all look the same to most of these people, a lot of other organisations, including the Red Cross, would suffer, too. So you’re gambling with the whole system here to help two strange characters follow a non-story and look for a dead girl among e
ight thousand others. It doesn’t add up. Why are you doing this?’

  ‘I don’t know, Louise. Maybe it’s because their irrational belief that one girl and one story still matter is somehow infectious. It’s like a first kiss. I can barely remember feeling that way.’

  ‘It’s not our job to feel that way.’

  ‘No. But I still like it.’

  14

  He introduces himself to Benton and Arwood as ‘Jamal’. No last name. No family. No affiliations. He shakes hands with a limp and weak touch common to the region, and which Arwood has always taken as a measure of the gesture’s unimportance. Jamal leans against his early-1990s Toyota Corolla as Benton and Arwood get in.

  The car has heavily worn grey vinyl seats. Like every Toyota in Iraq, it is white. Jamal starts the car and puts the vehicle into third gear far too soon, based on a theory — shared by all — that it will improve petrol mileage and reduce engine wear. As they chug their way out of camp, a box of tissues slides across the black dashboard, threatening to fall, but it never does. Jamal does not glance at it even once.

  No one speaks. Jamal has been told the destination.

  When they are on Route 2 and reach their cruising speed, Arwood breaks the silence. ‘I love a good road trip!’ he says from the backseat as he slaps Jamal on the shoulder and hands him a CD. ‘Put this in, man, will you?’

  ‘No CD. Only a tape deck,’ says Jamal, without looking at or taking the CD. They left camp in the direction of Dohuk and haven’t yet run into the customary early-morning traffic. The haze blends with the pollution in the morning light, obscuring the horizon. There is a musty smell in the air. Benton is seated up front with Jamal, and Arwood is in the back, moving around without a seatbelt, like a lanky teenager on the way to the beach.

  ‘Really? A tape deck?’ Arwood says.

  ‘It’s a Sony.’

  ‘Sony. Nice.’

  Arwood tosses the disk out the window. ‘So much for Tattoo You.’

  The ride to Zahko takes only an hour. They pass vistas of dry beige grass and unfinished stone walls erected by men to mark out their property. They look like ruins of the past, but are meant to be the future.

  Here and there, the ground drops from sight, and wadis open in the earth, full of tall grasses and short trees.

  After twenty minutes on the road, they come across their first roadblock. Worryingly, Benton sees Arwood’s hand disappear inside his satchel and remain there as Jamal rolls down the window.

  ‘What’s going on, Jamal?’ Benton asks.

  Jamal says, ‘No problem, no problem,’ which Benton considers little more than a verbal tic in postcolonial societies. He’s as clueless as he was a moment ago.

  There are two oil drums to the right of the road, and a makeshift pole with a white flag on the end of it. The right end has a counterweight made of scrap metal, and the guard — a beardless boy — is holding a Chinese-made AK-47 with its distinctive plastic stock.

  He is not pointing it at them.

  The boy says something in Arabic to Jamal. Jamal answers. The boy speaks again.

  As they talk, Arwood asks Benton, ‘You pick up any Arabic along the way?’

  ‘Words and phrases,’ Benton says. ‘I can link them up a bit. You?’

  ‘I can say, “Open the door or I’ll open your head.”’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I can also say, “The international telephone exchange is presently busy; please hold on and await your turn.”’

  ‘That’s awfully specific.’

  ‘I was in Israel in 1993. I had a thing for this Italian violinist who was studying there. She was so gorgeous it was maddening. She wore these ripped jeans I can still see. When she left for Rome, I called her all the time. They had a recording on international lines from public phones as you waited for a line to open. They repeated the same thing in Hebrew, Arabic, English, and French, and that’s what it said. For some reason, they put the telephone centre inside a student bomb shelter. Do you know what the acoustics of bomb shelters are like?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘All those languages trying to rise above each other to get their messages across to people who weren’t there. It was obviously a metaphor for something, but I could never figure out what.’

  ‘That was only two years after we met. What were you doing there?’

  ‘Making contacts.’

  Benton turns away from Arwood when Jamal uses the word ‘Habibi’, at which point Arwood says, ‘Now’s a good time to scooch. Down. Scooch down. Now. Like this.’

  Arwood scooches way down like someone regretting his decision to get on a roller coaster. Benton does the same, but doesn’t know why.

  ‘Why are we doing this?’

  Jamal starts to pull the car away from the checkpoint.

  ‘The guy outside wanted money. Jamal said he’d give him his love instead, and then pulled off. So … we’re either about to be shot at or we’re not. It’s a coin toss, really. So … scooch.’

  ‘There’s nothing behind us but sheet metal. Shouldn’t we bend over?’

  ‘I’d rather get shot in the head and have it pass through my arse than get shot in the arse and have it pass through my head. Wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I’ve never thought about it.’

  ‘Could be the last decision you ever make.’

  ‘Jamal,’ Benton says, ‘are we going to be shot at?’

  ‘No problem, no problem.’

  ‘See?’ Arwood says.

  ‘Jamal!’ Benton says again.

  ‘It’s OK. I know his family. His name is Muhammad. He studies engineering. He’s trying to make some money. He didn’t realise it was me. Roadblocks are popular because of the refugees. The Syrians come with their money, so we take it away. He shouldn’t be doing this, but he wants away.’

  ‘Away. Sure. Who doesn’t.’

  ‘No, no. Not “away”. A Wii. Nintendo. Wii II, actually. Very expensive in Iraq. Have to find someone coming through Dubai. Make special arrangement. I think it’s a mistake, though. More games on the old one, and the new one isn’t back-compatible.’

  ‘It’s true,’ Arwood says, sitting up again. ‘I would totally get the older one if I lived here.’

  ‘Very hard to find a job here. Very hard. Nothing to do. So people shake up the refugees.’

  ‘Shake down,’ Benton says. ‘They shake down the refugees.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘That’s not a nice thing to do,’ Benton says.

  Jamal shrugs. ‘We run to them, they do it to us, they run back to us, and we do it to them. Everyone knows. They know how much is fair to charge. You overcharge, you fight. You charge fair amount, everyone is OK. Everyone knows everything here.’

  ‘So we’re not going to get shot?’ Benton asks.

  ‘No problem.’

  Jamal is driving at sixty kilometres an hour. The road is well paved. Every time Jamal comes up on a car going slower, he honks and flashes his lights. None of the other drivers are bothered by this.

  ‘You know the Middle East?’ Jamal asks. Benton notices that this is the first time Jamal has asked a question that isn’t directly about the route itself.

  ‘Who, me?’ Arwood says, looking out the window, and taking in the cool and dusty morning air.

  ‘Yes.’

  Arwood laughs as he scans the Iraqiness of the passing countryside. ‘Dude, I’ve been to more places than Johnny Cash, and I’ve seen more weird stuff than Han Solo. Especially in the Middle East. You know Johnny Cash?’

  ‘He is a soldier, like you?’

  ‘What makes you think I’m a soldier?’

  Jamal takes his hands off the steering wheel, and makes circles around his own face with his index finger. ‘Your eyes.’

  Arwood ignores this. ‘He was a country-music singer.
Played guitar. Dead now.’

  ‘Drugs?’

  ‘No, man. He got old.’

  Jamal doesn’t say anything.

  ‘What about you, Jamal?’ Benton asks. ‘How did you luck into this job with us?’

  ‘Märta told me you wanted a driver. Märta is a very important person. She is very respected here. Speaks Arabic. She said you needed a driver. Said I could trust you.’

  ‘Who, me?’ Arwood says.

  ‘No. Not you,’ Jamal says, motioning to Benton. ‘Him.’

  The land changes. What was brown becomes green. The mountains now exert their presence. The rising sun has infused the air with the full weight of day. The road starts to climb, and the engine strains as Jamal puts the car into overdrive rather than downshift as he should.

  Arwood has grown impassive. Benton looks at his right hand dangling down as he rests his elbows on the two front seats. MORE, it says.

  More what?

  Benton looks at the hills. The line across the top of them, in the distance, is so crisp they seem to have been shaved flat by a scythe. Well-tended fields line the road. Farmers do not look up as the car passes. Horses with low backs and tyres used around their heads as harnesses pull makeshift wagons in disrepair. Every colour is faded. Every building is squat and forlorn.

  Something is missing, though. Something that has always been here when he has been here. Something that has always accompanied him.

  What is it?

  ‘Something’s different,’ Benton says aloud.

  Arwood’s fingers are tapping his bag. He looks anxious. Busy. Something in four/four time. A rock beat, perhaps.

  ‘What?’ he says.

  ‘Something’s different,’ Benton says again.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Arwood asks, the wind blowing his hair, but cooling nothing. ‘Different from what?’

  ‘I’ve been to places like this many times. Something feels different.’

  ‘We’re alone,’ Arwood says. ‘There’s no international presence. No UN peacekeeping operation, no US Army, it’s all local now, except for the aid agencies.’